Coming Alive Pt I - ATHOS
by Neftzer
Summary: Pre-series Athos x Milady to be written and posted in three parts. Athos, before he has met Milady. *Story has been moved to Coming Alive, all parts to be added to that posting*


**_***Updates to this story are now posting under the title "Coming Alive" by Neftzer.***_**

 _A/N:_ Pre-series (will be in several parts)  
I guess I should put this on paper. I think about it enough on my own (originally published on tumblr as nettlestonenell)

 **Pt. I - ATHOS**

He will marry Catherine, he supposes. Surely that is their wish. And why should he not? She is aimiable enough in conversation, her ancestors place her in the right sort of class to make his father smile upon her eligibility. To make him approve of her becoming his eldest son's Comtesse.

They will expect him to do this when he returns, of course. And why shouldn't he? Take a wife and begin having sons. A son, who should one day also become Comte. A wife he has known and shared a friendship with since they were children. A chateau upon his quiet countryside holdings.

He felt nothing about the matter either way, he supposed. There were women, of course, more lovely, more alluring than Catherine. Richer women, more exciting women. There were handsomer, wealthier, better-titled men than he, after all. More exciting men living lives of greater excitement than did he.

And yet there was not another woman to whom he would have to explain so little about himself, his background, the paths his life was meant henceforth to travel. There was not a female he could ever recall (including his own mother) in whose company he felt quite so comfortable. So easy.

He did not question feeling so passionless about the decision. He felt passionless about everything. Where was there anything within the life of a country vicomte about which to feel passion? To feel danger? To excite zeal?

There was the sword, as always. There was life and death on the edge of a blade. If he felt alive at all–-if he had ever felt so–-it was only ever with a sword in his hand.

And yet his own pursuit of such a vocation was limited.

A Comte must know swordsmanship. He must carry a sword always at his side. He must have been given instruction in swordplay as a young man. But to put such lessons into practice? To duel? To cross swords with a foe intent upon one's ruin? No, Le Comte must not be so careless. His people depended upon him. His family.

He had told them he would be gone two weeks–-no, six. _Six_ , he has told his father, in the end, just before he went. _Outside of Paris_ , he had said-–deliberately vague. _There is a man I must see about…business_ , he had said.

His father was no fool. He, above anyone in the household, had known that his eldest son rose blisteringly early of a morning to practice parrys and thrusts, a new technique he had read about in some long-dusty text from the chateau's library. His father Le Comte knew this business would be to meet a particular swordmaster, to study under him as long as his eldest son thought he could without being too strongly reprimanded, without raising too many eyebrows, disturbing too greatly the calm waters of life near Pinon.

No one knew him here, this small, out-of-the-way crossroads, a forgotten stopover on the way to Paris. His family's name was known by some, his wealth by more, his title not at all. But none knew his mind, none were in his confidence. Here he was alone.

He had been to Court once, as a boy of twelve. His father having some rare business there. The child King received them, crying loudly throughout the audience. (Which his mother as regent oversaw anyway). That had impressed him. That he would be older than his King; wiser, perhaps. An elder brother. He had told Thomas this. Thomas had laughed at him. But Thomas laughed at everyone. Thomas, jolly in nature, pleased or charmed by everything.

When Thomas had laughed Athos had decided not to tell him the rest. Not to tell him of the King's Musketeers he had seen there in Court that day, their faces scarred from duels, battles, derring-do. The particular blue of their capes. The leather worn upon their shoulders distinguishing them as the first of all men in service to the King. He did not tell Thomas–-never told Thomas–-of having passed by, riding with the coachman through the backstreets of Paris, and seeing the garrison of these super-men, hearing the sound of steel on steel as they practiced with blades, the fine horses being ridden in and out of the place's gates.

He had felt something then. Later, weeks later, he had been taken by dreams in which he leapt from the coach, dashing away from his father, from returning to Chateau de la Fere, hiding in that garrison and begging whomever found him to let him do any menial task if only he might stay.

It was too late for him now, of course. (As if a life in that sort of service to the King had ever been an option.) He had traveled here, nearly into Paris, with no servants, and employed none at his lodging. To his Madame concierge he left his laundering, what he ate for early and late meals. Of a Sunday he went to what stood for Mass. But what he did most–-and best-–and most happily–hour after a hour, day after day under the tutledge of the master swordsman, all-but blind from age and poverty, was feel alive.

And attempt somehow to store up such feeling for the rest of the years of his life to come.

 **...tbc...** _ *****Updates to this story are now posting under the title "Coming Alive" by Neftzer.**** *_


End file.
